


Let Yourself Get Down, Let Yourself Go

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bondage, Consensual Kink, Desperation, Established Relationship, Force-Sensitive Finn (Star Wars), Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Watersports, Watersports - Bathroom break during BDSM; dom holds sub's dick to guide stream while sub pisses, Watersports - Kept In Bondage While Desperate to Piss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29035620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: You're late,was the first thing Finn said when Poe turned up at the rendezvous, then,what am I going to do with you?Poe grinned at him, cracked wise:dunno, looking forward to finding out myselfredated for author reveals
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36
Collections: Bulletproof 20/21





	Let Yourself Get Down, Let Yourself Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts).



> Canon note: In the last film, Poe realized he couldn't win without his friends; he told Finn _I can't do this without you_ (*swoon*) and made them co-generals.
> 
> If you don't care about or dislike the fandom, look! It's established relationship m/m porn with kink, superpowers, and watersports.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Title from Luscious Jackson.

"Answer the question," Finn says again, his voice low. 

He's cross-legged on the floor across the small cargo bay, two blasters in pieces in front of him, a cleaning pick in one hand. He doesn't look up. Other than what he said, there's no indication that he even remembers that Poe is here. In a snug, well-washed singlet that originally was already a size too small for him and loose canvas field trousers, his hair drying in an effusion of twists, he looks so young. Doesn't sound young, though.

"Remind me what it was?" Poe asks.

"Remind me what it was," Finn repeats, and picks up a blaster stock, " _sir_."

"What was the question?" Poe says. He clears his throat. "Sir."

Finn runs a wire comb up the stock, then back down, then does the other side. He bites off a length of grip-adhesive and wraps the stock with three quick jerks. "Having fun over there?"

Poe's arms are bound behind his back, folded at the elbows, forearms lashed together. His shoulders bow and flex as he fights to keep his balance; he kneels on two crates, of minutely different heights, that are set just far enough apart to keep him fighting to stay still. The insides of his thighs ache with the stretch. Sweat crawls down the length of his spine, itchy and sticky, and gathers on his arms. It's cold here in the narrow hold, but his face is sweaty, too, his eyes stinging.

"Sir," he replies finally, then licks his lower lip. "I am, General, yeah. Thanks."

Finn pinches the sighting piece and rubs it vigorously with cleanser. He turns it to and fro, checking the shine, before moving on to the external case for the rifle's magazine. He's nearly completely absorbed in his task, smiling slightly to himself, occasionally humming.

The hold smells like cleanser paste and anti-rust gel. The ship is parked .004 parsecs off the nearest hyperlane. They're alone out here in the dark. Poe's heartbeat sounds inside his ribs, reverberates, hits again within his throat and up into his skull. As time passes and Finn attends to his chores, Poe's sweat beads and rolls, his pulse jumps and thunders, and he shifts in and out of phase with his body. Most of the time, he's here, bound and a little breathless, the stings of bruises prickling out over his skin.

Sometimes, he's not here. He watches himself, watches Finn, observes the patterns of light and dark across the hold. It's quiet there and time doesn't gulp and move; it just hangs. This is what he longs for, never mind how much he fights ever getting here.

 _You're late,_ was the first thing Finn said when Poe turned up at the rendezvous, then, _what am I going to do with you?_

Poe grinned at him, cracked wise -- _dunno, looking forward to finding out myself_ \-- and got pushed against the bulkhead, one of Finn's fists in his hair, the other on his ass, and Finn's kiss on his mouth full of teeth and impatience.

Finn fucked him over these crates, rough and fast, then pulled Poe's trousers up and bade him to kneel. His ass throbs; there's come slipping free. He's hard, and has been, and will, he knows, continue to be.

"Never meant to be so late," he says now. 

Finn's on his feet, putting away the blasters, getting out a vibro-sword to work on next. In front of Poe, he holds out a hydro-pak with a straw already protruding. Poe drinks gratefully. When he tries to pull away, however, Finn shakes his head and nudges the straw deeper into Poe's mouth. He holds it there until the pak is empty and wrinkling in on itself.

He pads barefoot, the tips of his toes rosy-dark, back to his spot on the floor. "Waited almost four cycles for you, Captain."

He must have been out of his mind with worry. Poe clears his throat. "Wait, I got demoted again?"

Finn's gaze flickers up, just for a moment. "Hell, yeah."

"Damn," Poe says softly. Then, a little louder, "I'm sorry."

Finn passes his hand over his hair and frowns at the battery-array within the sword's hilt.

"Sir," Poe adds. 

His mouth tastes like hydro-slurry. He has to piss. He's hard and trapped in his trousers and his right knee is sort of grinding against itself. He floats not-quite-entirely within his own skin. Getting tied up like this, then resolutely ignored, leaves him stymied. He can't move, can't mouth off (much), has to wait for someone else to do the work. Has to wait and trust. Has to _be_.

It's the worst. And also the best.

His dick throbs and he could swear his balls are tighter than a twin drum. He wiggles experimentally to see if he can relieve the pressure of the trousers' inner seam on his balls. The crates creak and Finn's head snaps up.

"Stay still."

"I have to piss, man."

"Not my problem." Finn draws a narrow tuning fork over the battery array.

Poe wiggles one more time, but now the seam is riding up against his ass and sticky hole. He closes his eyes and tries to find the quiet spot, out-of-phase from himself. When he opens them, Finn's in front of him again, offering another hydro-pak.

"I'm good --" Poe turns his head away.

Finn cups Poe's cheek and presses until Poe's looking at him again. He holds the straw against Poe's lip and clicks his tongue. Poe sucks it down as fast as he can.

"Better," Finn tells him, tossing the empty pak overhand at the waste vent. He makes the shot without looking.

"Thanks," Poe says.

Finn doesn't acknowledge that as he looks Poe over, checking the flexi-coated cables binding his arms, pinching Poe's fingertips to make sure he still has feeling there, kicking the crates a little farther apart. Poe bounces, nearly bites his tongue.

Finn's already ambling back to work. He cleans the vibro-sword, extracts the battery array and takes _that_ apart, then tests it with both the ship's power current and a little spark of the Force from the tip of his index finger.

"Nice," Poe breathes when that happens. He can't help it; the Force is fucking cool, he'll be ninety-eight and losing all his braincells and he'll still know that truth. The Force is amazing and Finn, more so.

Finn snaps his fingers and another spark, twin of the first, alights on Poe's sternum. It skitters and sizzles as it descends his chest, leaving an irregular trail of red pinpricks in its wake. When it lands on the fly of his trousers, it melts through the fabric. He sucks in a breath, steeling himself, but nothing burns him. 

Instead, the Force mouths at the top of his shaft, then engulfs the head of his cock and squeezes. As soon as his thoughts find the correct order and understand what is happening, the sensation is gone. Finn's over there, squinting at a micro-power cell, humming again, ignoring him, and Poe's stuck here, harder than ever, his bladder full, arousal thumping around his groin like it's wearing steel-toed boots. All of that simply _persists_ , the moment prolonging itself past belief, nothing changing, just need and pressure making themselves known and known.

"Please," Poe says croakily, slightly later. He squeezes his eyes shut. "Sir. I need to --"

Finn's lying on his back, ankles crossed, reviewing a holo-collection of lyric poetry. He sighs at the interruption. "Sorry, what?" 

"I need to piss," Poe says and coughs. The motion bends his shoulders strangely and his balance wavers. "Please. Sir."

"Huh." Finn hops upright. He crosses the space between them impossibly fast, blink-surge-arrive, but all he does is touch Poe's face. Palm on his cheek, Finn's thumb traces Poe's mouth, his fingertips stroke one eyebrow. He's so gentle it stings, makes Poe's skin bristle hotly and resentfully. Sometimes he'd just rather get beaten down, take the pain, then endure the tenderness, or so he'd like to claim. 

They're looking at each other, expressions illegible and shifting even as their gazes are steady.

Finn runs the tip of his thumb over Poe's lower teeth, then across the breadth of his tongue. Poe swallows spit and keeps looking up, loath to break eye-contact. A thought slips like a razor through Poe's mind: of sucking Finn off like this, just getting his head shoved into Finn's groin, being blind but for tongue and lips, choking as Finn fucks past his palate.

He has to piss. When he tightens against it, his hole clenches and thighs tremble. Finn's gaze is relentless. It pins Poe here, exposes him far past the naked torso and tied arms. Poe's jaw tightens as he returns the look. 

"Please," he says, one last time. "Finn."

Finn nods shortly, gets an arm under Poe's, and helps him to his feet. His balance is nonexistent -- one leg numb to the knee, the other just full of needles in his foot -- and he hops, leans, stumbles against Finn. Finn steadies him, arm around Poe's waist now, mouth on his temple at the hairline, where it's sweatiest.

"Here we go," Finn says in the fresher. With Poe tilted against the wall, Finn yanks open his fly fasteners. Even that glancing, indirect contact makes Poe shudder and bite on a curse. Ripples of sensation run violently through him, scrape in between skin and muscle, then wrap around his bones, too.

Finn eases down the waistband of Poe's briefs and lifts out his dick. He moves quickly, as gracefully as ever, with so much gentleness and concern that Poe's torn between shrieking in protest and crying in gratitude. His touch is firm, almost clinical. He keeps his other hand on the small of Poe's back, his mouth warm on Poe's ear and jaw.

Poe exhales, twisting a little, until they're kissing shallowly. Cupped in Finn's palm, his cock twitches and aches, even tingles a little, before he finally lets go. The stream is jumpy at first, hesitant and shy, but their kiss deepens and Finn firms his grasp and finally, _finally_ , the tension and weight in Poe's gut ease. He's pissing like a hose and curling into Finn's embrace and moaning as something bright and hot accelerates, spinning fast from his mouth down his spine, his chest, rockets out and down, until he's coming in a few frantic lunges and wrenching jerks.

Finn laughs into his mouth, into _him_ , holds him tighter, as Poe shouts and rides his release. For one quivering moment that does not end, he billows, weightless but held secure, free.


End file.
